


Off-Season

by aesc, dogeared



Series: Nantucket AU [34]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-15
Updated: 2007-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:59:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesc/pseuds/aesc, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John could take a run, or pick up some doughnuts from the Downyflake, or he could just stay here and watch Rodney stumbling his own way toward wakefulness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off-Season

Waking up on a fall morning is like being a kid on vacation again, the day full of nothing but possibility. John stretches slowly into it—he could take a run in the lung-chilling air waiting on the other side of the sheets, or pick up some doughnuts from the Downyflake (Rodney's favorite source of grease), or he could just stay here and watch Rodney stumbling his own way toward wakefulness.

Rodney's making some coffee-related sounds, hunting blindly around the bedside table for the alarm clock that hasn't been set since the end of August, and John spies the small red mark decorating his neck. From yesterday, John knows, remembering sailboats riding whitecaps and the two of them spending some quality time getting to know each other's tonsils.

"You know, I, um, I've never made out in a supermarket parking lot before today?" Rodney'd admitted on the drive back, and John had privately vowed to give Rodney a personal tour of every one of the island's make-out locales.

Just thinking about it makes him flush all over again, and he reaches for Rodney, who drops his watch and makes a small, startled sound, something that might be John's name or indignation or both, when John licks across his neck, the textured edge of his jaw—morning stubble, the extra roughness of a day-old bite mark. Rodney shudders and tries to turn over, to reach for John in turn. He isn't caffeinated yet, so he's slow and clumsy and not quite with the program right away, his hands unskilled and inarticulate for once, and kind of dangerous.

John rolls on top of him easily, blankets him, holds Rodney's hands firm against the mattress, palm to palm.

"Foreplay doesn't include you putting my eye out," he tells Rodney, who rolls his eyes and says, "Oh, like _your_ bony appendages are so much safer," but the complaint John knows is coming catches in Rodney's throat when John stretches out low and close, careful press all along Rodney's body, when he pulls one of Rodney's hands to his mouth, runs a thumb over the skin of his wrist and then licks over the same place, feeling the slow shudder of Rodney underneath him.

It's better than running, better than fighting over the last doughnut and waiting to lick cinnamon sugar from Rodney's lips—taking his time dismantling Rodney, watching him come apart, salt-warm and sweet and restless under John’s mouth.

Rodney looks half asleep and half aroused, mouth open a little, blush rolling down his neck and chest, hips hitching up when John licks and bites the pale, tender skin on the underside of his arm. He tries to say John's name, but his voice breaks on a moan, catches on the whatever-it-is John sees when Rodney's like this, when _they're_ like this, and the world narrows down to the two of them, to touch and taste and want.

When John lets Rodney's hands go, Rodney immediately sinks them into John's hair, scratches his scalp in the way that always, always makes John give it up—makes him shiver and open his mouth as wide as he can for Rodney's kisses. He’s giving it up, and Rodney’s spreading his thighs and persuading John to rest between them, murmuring something about morning breath against his lips, warm and wet, murmuring, "In me, John, _now_."

John has to tear his mouth away to breathe hard, because taking Rodney apart means _he's_ coming undone, too—and he finds himself just squeezing Rodney tight for a minute—it _could_ be a hug, John supposes, if you're into that kind of thing—holds on to him until Rodney's saying impatiently, "Okay, okay, this is all very nice, but can we get to the fucking now?"

John props himself up on his elbows and grins, grinds down against Rodney, deliberate and dirty, and says over Rodney’s moan, "Got somewhere to be?"

"No, no, nowhere, god, John," Rodney pleads, and then he has a hand on John's ass trying to pull him closer, pulling so John’s cock slides hot and beautiful against his.

"Well then," John murmurs into Rodney's neck, licking into the dip between his collar bones, "why don't we take our time?"

“Can't you get in me and then take your time?" Rodney’s hopeful, breathless, his fingers running anxiously over John’s shoulders, painting urgency across his skin.

"I can do that," John says, and Rodney sighs roughly, and John he wonders if he really can.

Rodney wriggles out from under him and flops over onto his stomach faster than John would have thought possible, voice muffled when he says, "Like this," and John has to raise an eyebrow that Rodney can't see and ask him suspiciously, "You're not going to fall asleep, are you?"

"Just because it happened that one—" Rodney pauses, glaring at John over his shoulder. "No. No, I will not fall asleep on you. Was the 'please God, John, get in me' not enough?"

And before John can say anything to that, Rodney says, softer and a little embarrassed, "Maybe I like it when your stupid, bony, hairy body's all stretched out on top of me, okay?"

"Well, when you put it like _that_ . . . " John rolls his eyes, but he likes the way his body fits on top of Rodney's body, too—likes being reminded of how strong Rodney is, broad shoulders and the smooth line of torso John's long since memorized—and he likes the noises Rodney makes when John follows the geometric bow of his spine with his tongue, when he lets his cock brush the perfect curve of Rodney's ass.

"Oh," Rodney sighs, face turned to the side, half-tucked into the shelter of one arm, and even half-shadowed, his face is so openly amazed it kind of hurts to see. When John slips two slick fingers into him just right, a shudder runs though him, and John can feel it everywhere, finding echoes deep deep down.

Rodney quivers as John licks the sweaty crest of one shoulder, says "Come on, John, please," and when he sinks into Rodney, it's hot and tight and slow slow _slow_ —just like he wanted, slow like Rodney so rarely is, holding his breath while John slides in, while he settles low and close over Rodney's back, fingers tracing the tension out along Rodney's arms, down to his wrists, sliding through Rodney's fingers where they’re gripping the sheets like holding onto control.

John rocks into him, little thrusts as Rodney pushes back against him, rests his forehead against the nape of Rodney's neck, and he's still a little dumbstruck that he can have this, that _they_ can have this whenever they want: this, sex, each other—like now, a rectangle of late October light lazing in through the window, broken by disordered sheets and the two of them tangled together, work and responsibility on the far side of the morning. _Time_ to feel Rodney under him, around him, tense and shift of him around John's cock, back firm against John’s chest, nowhere to go except deeper into Rodney.

John can feel tremors racing up the backs of Rodney's thighs, rippling along the muscles in his back, and he times his own breathing with Rodney's breathy pants into the sheets and goes with it, like flying, that zone when everything’s effortless, everything’s drawing out into a shapeless, liquid present: the pulse of their bodies together, his mouth on Rodney's shoulders, the damp length of his neck, words he doesn’t understand coasting across Rodney’s skin.

Rodney breaks the spell with a quiet, needy sound—so unlike Rodney, to be quiet about _any_ of his needs. John hooks his arms under Rodney's shoulders to give himself a little leverage, Rodney shifting to give him room because he knows what's coming, and John pulls back and sinks in again, deep as he can go. Rodney meets him halfway, makes a satisfied, broken sound when John pushes in, stays and holds.

John does it again, and again, and again, the muscles in his thighs starting to burn, but it's nothing compared to the heat low in his belly, to the feeling of Rodney under him, surrounding him, and god, he's never, ever going to stop—and then Rodney lets out another low moan, and it catches John somewhere deep in his gut, and suddenly he's pounding in in in, grunting and throwing his head back and coming hard.

Rodney's hands close tight around his, and he grates out, low and rough, "Fuck, John, _touch_ me already."

John eases one of his hands free, flexes his cramped fingers and, still inside Rodney, his own racketing heartbeat making his hand shake a little, reaches around, and Rodney feels hot and slick and huge, feels like he's right there on the edge. Rodney surges against him, and even though John's come, it feels _so good_ , another tremor of pleasure dazing him, and he strokes once, twice, tight and fierce the way Rodney likes it. One more stroke, and Rodney freezes, groaning and spilling hot and messy over John's fingers and the sheets, and for a second, just a second, John's chest feels tight, and his eyes prickle, a wave of some kind of unfettered _joy_ knocking him back.

He pulls out of Rodney, has to let go of his other hand to do it, rolls the rest of the way onto his side and tows Rodney with him, Rodney who's loose-limbed and careless after orgasm, whose mouth (John can just see over Rodney's shoulder) trembles at the edge of happy-crooked, shading into a smile that's one of the most honest John's ever seen.

Gradually, his heart comes down from its frantic pace and his breath isn’t stuttering in his lungs anymore, and Rodney’s a few moments behind him, red-faced and sweaty and melting into relaxation. John strokes a hand down Rodney's side, his warm, familiar hip, repetitive and soothing and fond, drifts and half-counts the seconds until Rodney starts talking again.

"That was . . . " Rodney pauses, sighs and shifts closer, reaches to brush his fingers over the back of John's hand. John thinks there might be a nice hot shower for two in his near future—and then, finally, coffee.

"Coffee," Rodney mumbles, like reading his mind.

"Yeah, buddy," John says to Rodney's shoulder blade. "As much coffee as you can drink." He yawns. "Doughnuts, too." Later, though, because Rodney's tugging sleepily at the blanket, tucking himself close, and there's nowhere they have to be just yet.


End file.
